


Pig Elvish

by myrtlebroadbelt



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Awkwardness, F/M, Flirting, Humor, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-08 06:37:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12858888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrtlebroadbelt/pseuds/myrtlebroadbelt
Summary: Belladonna speaks a language Bungo does not understand.





	Pig Elvish

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an anonymous prompt on Tumblr, from #42 [on this list](http://myrtlebroadbelt.tumblr.com/post/167669409527/two-word-prompts).

Belladonna spoke a language Bungo did not understand.

It was not merely the language of women, with which Bungo was admittedly just as unproficient. Nor was it the silent language Belladonna seemed to speak with her eyes in the gaps that punctured their conversations. Indeed, this was a language in the most traditional sense of the word, with an unfamiliar vocabulary and, Bungo could only assume, its own grammar. And Belladonna spoke it with a confidence that made the hairs on his feet stand up.

The first time he heard it, he had stolen away to visit her at the Great Smials by request of a letter she had sent. She sent him many letters, in the months since their clumsy first dance on Midsummer’s Eve. One had been delivered by a raven, which, according to the mud-smeared message it dropped onto his windowsill in the middle of the night, had been dispatched from somewhere in the wilderness.

In her most recent letter, Belladonna had requested Bungo’s company as she rested her tired feet, having just returned from the aforementioned wilderness not two days before. Bungo obliged, bringing with him a few of his mother’s cakes left over from tea — thinking it only polite, and not as presumptuous as flowers.

Belladonna, who greeted him from a sofa beside the hearth in one of the Smials’ many libraries, was delighted by the gift, and tucked in as soon as he handed her the basket, using the moments between bites to describe in vague terms the errand of great secrecy on which, for the past several months, she had accompanied her wizardly companion.

She could have told him every last confidential detail, and Bungo would have been none the wiser, flustered as he was to discover, upon entering the room, that she was wearing only her nightgown. He therefore spent much of his focus on willing the blush from his face when he caught her shamelessly licking a dollop of buttercream off the collar in the middle of a word.

His distraction proved troublesome when Belladonna paused her storytelling and, naturally, looked to Bungo to contribute something of his own to the conversation. In response, he fidgeted in the armchair adjacent to her, clearing his throat to buy himself time. When the half a second he received from the action proved insufficient, he blurted out the first question he could think up, to bounce the burden back to her until he could properly put his brain back together.

“Have you picked up any foreign languages on your travels?”

There was a twinkle in Belladonna’s eye as she swallowed her final bite of cake, sweeping the crumbs from the front of her gown — once again, very unhelpful to Bungo’s concentration. She took a moment to think, then said, with a rather serious expression, “ _Ankthay ouyay orfay isitingvay emay_. _Ethay akescay ereway eryvay oodgay._ ”

Bungo blinked at her, feeling his blush returning over the apparent fluency with which she spoke such an exotic-sounding tongue. “That’s … that’s quite beautiful. What is that, Elvish?”

To his profound dismay, she snorted at him, covering her mouth to suppress a laugh. _Oh, now you’ve done it,_ he thought to himself. _It’s probably Mountain Trollish, and you’ve just made yourself look like a proper fool for not knowing._

Imagine his surprise when Belladonna conceded, with still-curled lips, “It is … a _form_ of Elvish.”

He could only conclude that she had said something terribly embarrassing, perhaps poking fun at his choice of waistcoat, or a piece of food he hadn’t known was in his teeth, or the fact that he had sat on a book when he first entered the room and, not wanting to make a fuss about it, had remained seated on said book throughout the entirety of their conversation.

“What … what does it mean?” he managed to ask, for he might as well pretend to laugh about it with her, even as he was sure he would lose at least an hour’s sleep tonight reliving the experience in painful detail.

Belladonna was still smiling, her elbow propped on the back of the couch and her head propped on her palm, the golden light from the window streaming through the open triangle she formed and making her look absolutely radiant, thereby doubling Bungo’s agony. “It’s … difficult to translate,” she said.

He felt himself wince, and quickly concocted an excuse to leave — his sister Linda would be surprised indeed to learn that she was ill and in need of someone to administer her medicine.

Belladonna pouted dramatically over his sudden departure, and told him, as he extricated himself from the book which had served as his seat cushion for the past half hour, “ _Iyay oughtthay ofyay ouyay oftenyay enwhay Iyay asway onegay_.”

“That one’s difficult to translate as well, I imagine,” he said, trying his best at a good-natured chuckle, which came out as more of a whine.

“I’m afraid so,” she said with a knowing smile, and waved him goodbye.

It was on his return to Hobbiton that afternoon, desperate to learn what had been said to him, that Bungo slipped into the Tuckborough Library — which was inarguably the best place to go when you wanted to know about something you probably shouldn’t, as most of its texts had been donated by Tooks, and were therefore focused more on exploring distant lands than growing carrots.

He scanned the shelves from top to bottom until, at last, he found a dusty book labeled “Rudimentary Elvish.” Crouched over the pages like a tween discovering an anatomy book, he flipped desperately from chapter to chapter, trying to find a word he recognized from Belladonna’s mouth. None of them looked familiar, though he didn’t have long to study them before the librarian approached from behind to offer assistance, causing him to panic, drop the book with a thud, and rush out the door.

 _Perhaps it’s best if I never leave the house again_ , he decided as he crossed The Water.

 

The next time he heard Belladonna speak her obscure form of Elvish was also the next time he saw her — at a Yule party hosted by her father. There was a considerable chill in the air, and Bungo could hardly tell the difference between his pipe smoke and the breath that escaped his mouth between puffs.

He spent most of the evening at a table beneath the party tree, flicking the baubles which dangled near his ear and nodding along absently as his father critiqued everything from the food to the number of lanterns. All the while, he had one eye on the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Belladonna in whatever woollen hood or fur collar she had donned for the occasion, while simultaneously fearing what would happen if she, in turn, spotted him.

Spot him she did, eventually, as he escaped his father’s judgment long enough to retrieve another plate of roasted potatoes from the food tent. She was sipping mulled wine with her two sisters, wearing a red velvet cloak that brought out the green in her eyes.

Bungo nearly dropped the serving spoon in the grass when he noticed the three of them walking over. “Hello,” he said, with a stiff wave. “Lovely party.”

“ _Appyhay Uleyay!_ ” Belladonna replied, her cheeks rosy at either end of her wide smile. “ _Iyay issedmay ouyay. Ywhay avehay youyay otnay isitedvay againyay?_ ”

Bungo laughed, perhaps a little too loudly, for he knew of no other way to respond.

“What’s so funny?” asked Donnamira, the older of Belladonna’s sisters, and Bungo’s heart sank so quickly to the bottom of his stomach that he was shocked it didn’t drag him into the earth.

“ _Iyay okespay otay imhay inyay Igpay Elvishyay andyay ehay adhay onay ideayay atwhay Iyay asway ayingsay_ ,” Belladonna told her sisters with amusement.

“ _Owhay ashay ehay evernay eardhay Igpay Elvishyay?_ ” Mirabella responded, glancing at Bungo with a snicker.

“ _Iyay oday otnay owknay, utbay Iyay indfay ityay adorableyay_ ,” Belladonna giggled, and Bungo thought for a moment that he may have recognized one of the words she spoke, but forgot about it when she turned back to him and returned to the common tongue: “It’s good to see you. I hope you’ve been well.”

“Yes,” Bungo said, and couldn’t help his sigh as he thought perhaps he had overreacted — perhaps she wasn’t making fun of him after all. “And you?”

“Very well, apart from my frozen toes,” she said, and then glanced to make sure her sisters were distracted at the dessert table, before adding in a near-whisper, “If only it were warmer, I would ask you for a dance.”

“I would like that,” Bungo managed to stammer out, though his heart had made its way out of his stomach and into his throat.

“ _Iyay ovedlay ancingday ithway ouyay isthay ummersay_ ,” she added, the strange words rolling off her tongue like raindrops off an umbrella, and Bungo decided that he loved and hated this language at the same time.

With a nod goodbye, Belladonna joined her sisters, leaving Bungo standing there paralyzed with the serving spoon still in his hand, until an irritable hobbit, who had been tapping his feet and waiting his turn through the preceding events, nudged him out of his trance and away from the potatoes.

 

The next time Belladonna spoke the language, she wrote it. In the spring, a letter arrived from her in the Baggins’ post box. At Bungo’s request, she had stopped including a return address, so as not to raise his father’s suspicions. Nevertheless, he was beginning to fear that old Mungo would recognize Belladonna’s swooping penmanship, and therefore did his best to be the first at the box each day, under the guise of helpfulness — which, if you knew Bungo, was not unfathomable.

It seemed to Bungo that Belladonna had tired of her Elvish teasing, as she had not used the language, in spoken or written conversation, since the start of the new year. Indeed, her letter on this particular day was composed mostly in the common tongue, as she described, in colorful detail, her excitement over the newly blooming flowers, and expressed her desire for a picnic by The Water, with Bungo as her companion.

He was just beginning to tug his heart down from where it currently floated like a kite above his head, when he reached the end of the letter, and saw Belladonna’s post-script. It was not unusual for her to include one (or more than one, for that matter), but there was something obviously different about this one:

_P.S. Ouldshay ouyay agreeyay otay oinjay emay, easeplay ingbray awberriesstray ithway eamcray._

Bungo sat at the kitchen table puzzling over the message until his tea went cold, analyzing the punctuation, the capitalization, the spelling. He couldn’t figure it out, and he suddenly feared that any chance he may have had with Belladonna (if he allowed himself to ignore the foolishness of that very idea) would be lost if he could not translate her most mysterious of words.

“Bad news?” came a voice from behind him. He turned to see his younger brother Longo standing in the doorway, biting into an apple.

“Why do you say that?” Bungo wondered.

“Your eyebrows … They’re doing that thing.” He imitated it, and it was less than flattering.

Bungo sighed. “It’s nothing.”

Longo stepped closer and looked over his shoulder. “Who’s that from? The Took?” He had taken to calling her that, as he could never keep the three sisters’ names straight — in truth, few could, unless you happened to be infatuated with one of them.

Bungo swept the letter off the table and into his jacket pocket. “That’s none of your concern.”

“Oh, let me have a look. I’m quite good with women. And based on that face you were making, you could use some help.” Longo had just entered his tweens, and it showed.

The last thing Bungo wanted was romantic advice from his younger brother, especially since the part which puzzled him was in a language he was quite certain no Baggins would understand. Unfortunately, Longo was persistent.

“I’m perfectly capable of handling — no, stop that. Longo, get out of my pocket. I’m warning you. Give that back this instant. That is private correspondence, and I am your elder brother. Give it to me. Oh, sticklebats.”

Longo held the letter out of Bungo's reach and sniggered at Belladonna’s words, adopting a high-pitched voice to read aloud her flowery descriptions.“What’s this down here?” he asked when he reached the post-script.

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself. We’re hopeless to understand it. The language of some far-off kingdom, I’d imag—”

“Pig Elvish!”

Bungo stared at his brother. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s Pig Elvish. Don’t you know Pig Elvish?”

“What occasion would I have to learn the language elves speak to their pigs?”

Longo put his palm to his face. “Really, Bungo, you must get out more.”

Bungo narrowed his eyes. “You’re not having me on, are you?” he asked, for it would not be the first time.

“Of course not. Here, look.” Longo sat across from him at the table. “You take the word’s first sound and put it at the end, and then you add ‘-ay’ to it. Simple as that. So your name would be Ungobay, and mine would be Ongolay. If it starts with a vowel, you just ad ‘-yay’ to the end.”

“Why would anyone create such a language?”

“For fun. Or to fool parents.” He smirked to himself. “Once, I told Hambut Bracegirdle I had a stash of homebrew in my room, right to his face, while Mother was listening in the parlor. She thought we were just being silly. Though I doubt Father would ever fall for it.”

Bungo rolled his eyes. At every age, Longo was always the more rebellious one — although, to be fair, he wasn’t the one currently attempting to court the Old Took’s eldest daughter. Perhaps Bungo was simply making up for lost time.

He pointed to Belladonna’s letter. “So what does this say?”

Longo examined the post-script, translating each word slowly. “‘Should you agree to join me, please bring strawberries with cream.’ Ah, it’s a test.”

“A test?”

“To see if you’ve figured her out. She’s probably been saying all sorts of scandalous things in front of you.”

Bungo’s eyebrows returned to their most unflattering position, as he tried to remember everything Belladonna had said to him, and to her sisters. In his mind, it was only one long string of “ay ay ay,” which wasn’t very helpful.

“Well, I suppose I can pick some up at the market on my way to meet her,” he thought aloud.

“Pick up what?”

“Strawberries with cream.”

“Are you mad?” Longo cried. “You can’t let her know you’ve figured out her code. This is your chance to know everything she doesn’t want you to hear.”

“But isn’t that dishonest?”

Longo waved the letter in his brother’s face. “And what do you think this is?”

Bungo leaned back in his chair, exhausted. If this was courtship, he hoped it stuck.

 

He accepted Belladonna’s invitation and spent the days leading up to their picnic practicing Pig Elvish with Longo, making sure to keep away from their father’s suspicious ears. When the date arrived, he placed cold chicken, a wedge of cheese, and a pair of lemon cakes in a basket (no strawberries and cream), and made his way to Belladonna’s requested meeting spot, a quiet patch of grassy shore in the shade of a gnarled oak tree.

When he got there, she was already waiting for him, lounging on her back on a patchwork quilt, her hands behind her head and her eyes closed, feet crossed at the ankle. Bungo found himself standing there silently, half of him not wanting to startle her, and the other half just wanting to stare at her in her pale blue dress.

“It’s impolite to stare,” she said, eyes still shut but a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Bungo gulped. “I wasn’t—”

“Oh, just come and sit down,” she said, opening her eyes and rolling onto her side.

So Bungo sat, taking a moment to decide on the most comfortable position, as he was rather unaccustomed to sitting directly on the ground. It was while he was testing different placements of his legs, feet, and backside, that he caught a glimpse of Belladonna’s own basket.

“Oh,” he said, without thinking first. “You brought strawberries with cream.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Is that all right?”

“Yes, of course,” he rushed to say, and should have left it at that. Instead, he added, “Perfect. I love strawberries with cream. Very good. Glad you brought it. Yes.”

That settled it, then. His brother had been mocking him. How he managed to create an entire language, and so convincingly translate Belladonna’s message, was beyond him. What tweens these days would do for a joke.

He did his best to put it out of his mind and enjoy the afternoon, though his heart never seemed to stop racing from the moment he sat down. He and Belladonna nibbled away at their baskets, drinking in between — as distracted as he was by the strawberries, he had missed the large bottle of red wine peeking out from behind two cups.

It turned out to be quite the blessing, as speaking to Belladonna Took was considerably easier with a cup of wine in one’s belly — and perhaps a few extra if you were a Baggins. When Belladonna pointed to the maypole which was being set up across the way for the spring festival, Bungo found himself recounting the time he became so tangled in his ribbon as a boy that his mother had to cut him free with a pair of scissors. It caused Belladonna to double over with laughter, which made him feel warmer than even the wine had.

They were in the midst of sharing the strawberries with cream, Bungo blushing every time the tines of their forks accidentally touched, when Belladonna said casually, “ _I_ _yay ouldway ikelay otay isskay ouyay_.”

Bungo cursed Longo in his mind for stoking his hope of ever understanding this mysterious language. Yet just as quickly, his mind did something else. He had studied Pig Elvish so diligently in recent days that he had become practically fluent, and mentally translating Belladonna’s words was beyond his control. His brain moved the letters around like pieces of a puzzle, until it formed an understandable — and utterly shocking — sentence.

His fork stopped in the midst of stabbing a particularly slippery strawberry. He went over the words again. And again. His eyes widened, and that was all Belladonna needed.

“Aha, I knew it!” she declared. “I knew you knew!”

Bungo wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, on several counts. “I … beg your pardon?”

“Oh, don’t pretend.” She raised an eyebrow. “Pig Elvish.”

He stopped cursing Longo and started cursing himself. “How did you know?”

“It’s not every day someone is so spooked by the sight of strawberries with cream,” Belladonna said drily. “Did you think I brought it by accident?”

Bungo leaned back on the blanket with a moan, covering his eyes with his hand, partly out of embarrassment and partly because the sun was getting high. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.”

“At what?” Belladonna asked, and he could sense her stretching out to face him.

He gestured vaguely.

Belladonna hummed a pleasant laugh. “I suppose it was rather cruel of me to carry on with it so long. I thought you would be in on the joke — really, I did — when it first started. But then you were so earnest, and it was so adorable, I couldn’t help playing.”

 _Adorable_. That was the word Bungo heard her say to her sisters, at the Yule party last year. The realization left him breathless — in the most uncomfortable way.

“Anyway,” Belladonna continued, allowing him to remain in stunned silence for a moment longer, “how did you figure it out?”

He caught enough of his breath to say, “My brother.”

“Ah, of course. And I suppose he was the one who told you not to bring the strawberries.”

Bungo nodded. Belladonna, in contrast to him, was _very_ good at this.

“Little siblings,” she mused. “A blessing and a curse. I know, because I have them.” She paused, before adding with amusement, “And I am one.”

Bungo managed to laugh at that, and it filled his lungs enough to speak again. “Perhaps that is where my problem lies. I’m the first-born.”

“You’ll be all right. It’s the only children who should worry,” Belladonna told him. And then, after a moment, “I can speak a bit of real Elvish, you know. Would you like to hear it?”

“No!” Bungo blurted, seeming to have found his voice again. “At least, not right now. If you please.”

“I understand."

They were quiet for a few moments after that, Bungo still covering his eyes. There was only the sound of birds and rippling water and distant townspeople. As he couldn’t help doing in moments like these, he got to thinking. About one thing in particular.

He had just enough wine in him to say something about it.

“What you said before … in the, erm, Pig Elvish,” he began haltingly, hoping Belladonna would finish the sentence for him. When she didn’t, he forced himself to continue: “Did you mean that, or was it just a … well, a test?”

Belladonna was silent at first, and he assumed he had said wrong thing, as seemed so often to be his habit. A moment later, however, he heard her shift on the blanket. Opening his eyes, he found that the blinding sun above him had been eclipsed by a head of curly black hair, swept over one shoulder as Belladonna gazed down at him. He couldn’t quite make out the expression on her face, backlit as she was, but when her lips pressed against his own a second later, he had some idea.

They didn’t speak much of any language after that.

**Author's Note:**

> If you need any help with the Pig ~~Elvish~~ Latin, there's a translator [here](http://www.wordplays.com/pig-latin). And feel free to let me know if you spot a mistake — I'm not as fluent as Belladonna.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm on [Tumblr](http://myrtlebroadbelt.tumblr.com).


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